On Adjectives And The Like
by Cella N
Summary: She doesn’t even know what she’s doing at this party. Aside from getting drunk. SAKURA. GAI. On adjectives and why doctors shouldn’t go to parties. Ever.


**Diclaimer: **Naruto isn't mine. Thank god. Elsewise Sakura'd be fandom-bycycled in canon, too.  
**Spoilers: **None.  
**A/N: **Not particularly meant to be serious—totally isn't serious. You plebes are acquainted with the word "crack", a-yes? There you go!

**On Adjectives and the Like**  
_There's a saying that goes…up north. On Thurdays, occasionally, South._

Really, she doesn't understand why she has to be here.

It's not like she gets along with these people, at least, not more than a few misplaced 'hello's on the hallways, or in the village. Or maybe she was feeling nice one day and helped them reach the scroll from that upper shelf, in the library which she seemed to have made a residence of.

Anyway.

Unimportant. She's irrelevant here, she supposes. It's a party, of course, since everything starts and ends at a party. Ninjas her age don't know the meaning of going down with a whimper. Well, at least not Naruto. Which is probably why he's still alive, and why he's at the same party as her—being him who dragged her there, and all that.

Soul of the party.

Well, that makes Sakura the tiny little part of the brain that no-one ever uses. Which means she's being ignored. Somewhat. It's a party, she's top class medic-nin, and she's there because then the party gains popularity.

Of course, as the saying goes, the worst thing you can be at a party, is a doctor.

"No, I don't think that zit is deadly—Mitsuka-san, was it? If you applied some cream, it'd probably go away," she says, starting into her too empty glass as the girl near her whines over a deadly cheek infection. Pffft. She didn't become a medic-nin for this.

Where have the good days gone? When she had to disembowel people, fix them up, and then put it all back together? She missed that thrill of needing to operate and save a person from the grave. She loved the power, the knowledge, the _everything_ . Miss it she did. Especially in these last weeks, when she hasn't healed up anyone—ninjas getting better, pay getting low—and especially now, when civilians come up to ask her if this mole is dangerous, or if their pee should smell, or if they can get pregnant if they swallow.

People.

Should never drink at parties. Or drink at all.

Actually, no.

Doctors should never attend parties. It's like danger waiting to happen.

"Excuse me, I need a drink," Sakura says to the third concerned girl that approaches her—with some skin rash, no doubt—and makes a beeline for the bar. She practically slams her hand on the bar table, almost breaking it, and rasps: "Vodka."

"ID?" the bartender—she knows him, the little priss—asks her, sneering slightly.

She slams her ID on the table, giving him a smug smile of: "yeah, I'm a ninja, you idiot, so serve that drink and quickly."

The drink, god bless it, glides and burns her throat, and images of zits and rashes and others leave her brain. Oh, bliss. Oh, heaven. Oh, her boat is rocking. Rocking a lot. Bad. Bad. Support. She needs to just lean against something stable and—

There. Perfect. Green, and perfectly stable and kinda solid, and—

Wait, green?

In her confused mind, she remembers the wall paint was chapped blue. And unless she's went outside, then…

"My, my, Sakura-chan. Are you sure you should be drinking at this age?" the cheerful voice booms, and her heart falls through her feet. Gai.

"Mmm, after all the skin infections I've had to see, yes. I need it," she wants. It probably ends up like "shut up and hand me your glass, too".

The voice—because at this moment, Gai is just a blurry, green and tall, voice—chuckles slightly, and a hand pats her head while the other removes her glass. She distinctly recalls growling at that point. Because, drink. Needed. Needed badly.

But no. Gai is gentlemanly, and awesome and youthful and blah, blah, blah. She needs another drink now.

"Having fun, I see." That was probably sarcastic. But he was smiling brightly, so she couldn't say.

A look is her answer. "Mmmdrink?" she asks, leering at his glass, and giving the people near them a side-glance. No zits. No talks of infection, please.

"Sure, here," he says, and shoves the glass under her mouth.

Were she conscious of herself, she'd really have seconds doubts at why the hell he's giving her alcohol. Only it registers later, when the drink slides down her throat, that—"You're drinking _smoothies_?"

"Of course," he says—getting cleared now, not blurry anymore. Green. So much green. Come back, blur. Come back now.—with a smile: "It's high on protein."

"How manly."

"Well, I doubt you'd like the drunk me. It's a terrible state of being, it degrades the person, making them the viles of creatures, and—"

"You do realize I'm drunk, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, those aren't compliments."

He looks at her, smile still in place—oh god, where is another drink when she needs it, WHERE?—and grabs her shoulders, paternally. "Sakura-chan. Let us dance."

"…….wha?"

"By burning calories, the drunken state will go down, and you will be—"

"I don't want it to go down."

"—your intelligent, smart self again, uncorrupted by the taste of alcohol—"

"I just want to go home and sleep."

"—which you've so innocently had been forced to try—"

"And never see a skin rash again."

"—but it is okay, because dance cures everything! So, let's."

"………….fine."

And then there's a dance floor. Or something like it. The exact term she'd use for it is 'pack of sardines being smushed together'. She doesn't recognize the music. Not that it matters, since her dance-mate is tone-deaf. It's probably a slow tune—waltz?—but he's flailing his arms like a nutty nut person—her adjectives are failing her now.

"What are you doing?" she asks, embarrassed. Never drinking again. Ever.

"This is to make the drink go down."

"Uh."

"Come, Sakura-chan, repeat!"

She's certain that he's been hired by Tsunade, or SOMEONE, as the person in charge of making people un-drunk. Because it takes seeing him dance, a smoothie, and lots and lots of fear-for-your-life, and oh lo: miracle! Her mind is clear, the sensation of being woozy is gone, and now she's moving slightly to the beat.

"Do it right," she tells him.

Gai, surprising as it may seem, knows how to dance, actually. He's holding her reasonably and gentlemanly close, and even though he's tone-deaf, he lets her lead with spectacular talent. So much so that some people stop to gaze. Sakura wants to give them a look.

Yes, I'm dancing with the Green Beast of Konoha, shut the hell up. Idiots.

She concentrates on her feet, and the dancing thing goes down pretty okay. It's not that bad. She doesn't get why so many women are repulsed by him. Or by Lee. Herself included, sure, but that was back when she was stupid. And young. Now she's probably just stupid, and not young. Not that it matters, anyway. Same old routine.

It's fucked up that she needs to get drunk to realise that Lee and Gai aren't that unattractive—

Wait. What?

…maybe she's still drunk…

"You looked bored and helpless out there, before," Gai tells her.

"Gee, you just keep on complimenting me to no end, don't you?" she retorts.

"But you handle the situations with zeal and youthful magnificence!"

"….that's better."

"I would've rescued you earlier, but unfortunately, my presence was acquired in a complex operation of—"

"Don't bother, Kakashi-sensei's got me well taught in intricate lies."

"But it's true!"

"Uh-huh."

They keep on dancing. Sakura doesn't mind. She doesn't mind the party, or the drink—which had to be spiked, surely!—or the dancing, which is rather okay and all, or the company.

Or his stupid use of many adjective, versus her lack thereof.

The night is FULL OF YOUTH—he would say.

It's kinda nice, yeah—she'd answer afterwards.


End file.
